We landed in New Orleans on Sunday, which isn’t when most people arrive in New Orleans unless they’ve made a mistake. It had been a quick trip to New York. In and out. Just two days. The main reason was a play I didn’t want to miss—a revival of David Mamet’s Glengarry Glen Ross. Bob Odenkirk, Kieran Culkin, Bill Burr, and Michael McKean—men who seem like they should be at entirely different cocktail parties, but who worked surprisingly well together. It was sharp, fast, and funny in that dark, uncomfortable way Mamet always nails.
We caught another show while we were there and knocked a few restaurants off the running list. But that play was the anchor.
And the whole time, I thought about my mom.
She’s been gone eight months now. Died last fall at ninety-one. She lived a life that would’ve buckled most folks by middle age. Widowed in her thirties, she raised two boys, went back to school, got her master’s in art, and taught for the next fifty years. Private lessons in our attic, public schools, private schools, some college work, too. She taught until she was eighty. Not because she dreamed of shaping young minds—but because we were broke.
The phrase people use is “a full life,” which is code for “she worked herself into the ground and didn’t get nearly enough credit for it.”
She never remarried. She was the whole deal—the one who kept the lights on, kept the car running, and dragged me all over town to art galleries, museum openings, and craft shows when I’d have rather been anywhere else. My brother had a way of disappearing when those things came up. I didn’t get a pass.
I could give you a list of things I would have rather been doing—and none of them included watching someone demonstrate paper marbling or the finer points of stained glass etching. I wasn’t exactly begging to hear about glazing techniques or the symbolism in fiber art installations before lunch. But if there was an art event within 40 miles, we were going.
The first time I ever saw a Mardi Gras Indian wasn’t during a parade. It was at Jazz Fest, sometime in the mid-’70s. She checked us out of school on a Friday, drove us down to New Orleans, and bought us roast beef poboys at the Acme Oyster Bar—she always said that was our dad’s favorite place. Then we walked the fairgrounds. No agenda. No explanation. She just figured we ought to see it.
In 1972, she and a friend opened an art gallery in town. They called it The Cardboard Cow, named after a painting by Beverly Dennis that hung near the entrance. I was ten. They paid me five dollars to mow the grass, which probably violated a labor law or two, but seemed fair at the time. I pushed our big wheel Yazoo mower two miles through Mississippi heat to get there. When I needed a break, I’d slip inside and pretend to admire the art while soaking up the air conditioning.
Eventually, I started asking questions. “What is this supposed to be?” “Why is everything so orange?” “Are people supposed to buy this?” Someone working the gallery would usually answer.
That’s how it started.
My mom worked in pastels, charcoal, watercolor—whatever the piece called for—but pen and ink was where she was strongest. Her line work was clean, detailed, and technical. In her later years, she tried to make a living doing portraits, which mostly meant being paid to paint people’s grandchildren, which mostly meant pretending all grandchildren are equally cute. Her best work happened before she had to monetize it. That’s probably true for a lot of us.
The gallery didn’t last long. Most galleries in small towns don’t. But something stuck. Not just the exposure to art, but the idea that someone could start something, put their name on it, and own it. That was my first real lesson in entrepreneurship—though at the time, I thought it was just a clever way to make me push a lawnmower for an unmarked five-dollar bill.
Theater snuck up on me in the same way.
One year, she took me to see The King and I in New Orleans. A traveling production. Yul Brynner was performing. I didn’t want to go. I was bribed with a poboy from the Acme and made to wear a coat and tie. That was standard back then. I sat through the first act with my arms crossed, quietly rooting against it. Brynner ended up playing that role more than 4,600 times. I don’t know which number in that order I saw, but somewhere in the second act, it got to me. It felt like watching a movie in person.
I never told her I liked it. Not then. But I never forgot it.
As much as I love movies—and I really do—not many have stayed with me the way a good play can. Maybe it’s because it’s live. Maybe because it’s risky. Or maybe it’s just that a play feels like something you’re a part of, not just watching.
I couldn’t name them all. But the good ones stuck.
• Yul Brynner in The King and I. The gateway drug. First one. Can’t top it.
• Gary Sinise in One Flew Over the Cuckoo’s Nest at Steppenwolf. Played it loud. Played it honest.
• Alan Cumming in Cabaret. The first revival in the Studio 54 space. Dark, sharp, unforgettable.
• Sean Hayes and Kristin Chenoweth in Promises, Promises. Neil Simon jokes and Burt Bacharach melodies—what’s not to love?
• Nathan Lane in A Funny Thing Happened on the Way to the Forum. Hit every beat. Made it look easy.
• And just last week—Glengarry Glen Ross. Odenkirk, Culkin, Burr, McKean. Four guys who knew exactly what they were doing. And did it.
It’s not that I’ve seen more plays than movies. Not even close. But the ones that land—really land—stick. Longer than most films ever have. Maybe it’s the in-person liveness of it. The risk. Or maybe it’s just that the first one came with a poboy and a story about my dad.
My mother never sat me down to explain art. She just brought me along. Galleries. Plays. Festivals. No lesson plan. No big talk. Just the belief that something might take if I was close enough to it.
And it did.
When we landed yesterday, I drove straight to the Acme on Veterans and ordered a roast beef poboy. Same as always. And somewhere between the first bite and the last, I said a quiet thank you.
For all the places I didn’t know I needed to go.
Onward.
Italian Cheesecake
If you are a fan of American-style cream cheese cheesecake, this might not be your dessert. Though if you like something lighter and less sweet, this is the dessert for you.
5 each Large egg yolks
1 ¼ cups Sugar
½ tsp Kosher salt
2 cups Ricotta cheese, drained , at room temperature
2 cups
Zest of 1 lemon
Zest of 1 orange
2 TB Unsalted butter
¾ cup Crumbled biscotti
Preheat oven to 275.
Combine egg yolks, sugar and salt in the bowl of a stand mixer fitted with the paddle attachment. Beat on high speed until foamy and the sugar dissolves, about 2 minutes.
Add the ricotta, mascarpone, lemon zest and orange zest and beat on medium speed for 3 minutes. Scrape down the sides and the bottom of the bowl and continue beating on medium speed for an additional 3 minutes. The batter should be smooth and have no lumps.
Using the butter, grease the bottom and the sides of a 9" spring form pan and sprinkle with the biscotti crumbs. Pour the batter into the spring form pan, using a spatula to smooth the top. Bake for 40-50 minutes, until set. It will begin to firm as it cooks but should still jiggle slightly when shaken. Allow the cheesecake to set in the refrigerator overnight. Slice with a knife dipped in hot water to create smooth edges along each slice.
Yield: 10-12 servings
